


Heave-Ho

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Joker (2019)
Genre: AU: oh fuck there's TWO of them, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - High School, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Child Abuse, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Physical Abuse, kicked out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Joker knew something like this was going to happen. He wasn't prepared for it to happentoday.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Joker (DCU)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Anywhere I Lay My Head I Will Call My Home





	Heave-Ho

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr-finch (soubriquet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



> Once more in the 'Joker and Arthur grew up together' AU, this fic takes place (and gives some context to) Mr-Finches 'Holding Me Up'. Be advised that this fic graphically portrays a teenager getting the shit kicked out of him by his father, and contains deliberately used homophobic slurs.

Joker had known this was coming. 

Part of him had known it might happen for the last two months, since Arthur had stayed over. It became a looming certainty when Dad’s lay-off became an official termination and he was suddenly home all the time, refusing to file for unemployment and squatting in his chair, drinking beer and looking for fights to pick.

First, Dad’s savings dwindled out. Joker did the best he could to supplement, slipping Ma cash or leaving it tucked in her slippers like he had left her notes as a child, so she could buy food and cigarettes while Dad grudgingly wrote checks for the utilities and the mortgage. When the check for the electric bounced, a bright pink postcard showed up, announcing the late fee, the fee for a bad check, and the new grand total.

Joker had tucked the notice in his jeans, slipping it under his shirt before bringing the rest of the mail in to hand off to Ma. His parents had no money left. It would only make things worse to let Dad see that; Joker had heard him rail about the greedy cunts at City Hall and the utility companies, the employees of whom, if Dad was to be believed, sat around jacking off all day, when they weren’t out trying to steal a hard-working man’s money.

It drained his account, covering the electric and a week’s worth of simple groceries. There was no more blood to bleed for that stone; he could throw his paycheck at Ma on Friday but that left all of the week ahead with nothing. 

Which of course, Dad didn’t give a shit about. The way he’s got Joker by the front of his work shirt, crushing him against the wall by the front door, refusing to listen to a goddamn word, says enough of that. 

“You’re gonna  _ contribute _ to this fuckin’ household or you’re gonna find a new place to squat,” he snarls, red in the face, reeking of stale beer. He always hates hearing the word ‘no’, regardless of context. “You eat my fuckin’ food, waste my water and my electricity, you can sure as shit contribute to keeping the roof over our heads.”

“I pay  _ rent, _ asshole,” Joker snaps before he can bite it back. At least knowing he’s making the mistake gives him time to anticipate the slap, his own arm lashing up to block it. 

Dad doesn’t like that anymore than he liked hearing ‘I don’t have the money to pay rent early’, but at this point, Joker figures that’s kind of tough shit. He uses the advantage of the asshole flinching back to shove his way free from where he’d been crowded to the wall, aiming to go around the bastard and up the stairs. 

If he can get to his room, he knows, he’ll be safe until morning at least. 

He doesn’t expect Dad to recover so fast. The man’s been so slow the last few times they’ve done some variation of this song and dance, the wrong side of drunk and unused to Joker fighting back in any real sincerity. 

The grip on his arm is crushing, will bruise later in a perfect imprint of his father’s hand, too low on his arm to be hidden by the sleeve of his work shirt. That alone -- the realization that he’ll have to wear his jacket on shift even though it’s against policy, that if he doesn’t everyone will  _ know _ \-- is enough to turn his irritation to rage. 

When he turns, yanking his arm free, he swings he fist into his father’s face. The asshole doesn’t even try to block it, taking the hit to the jaw with wide-eyed confusion, like it never occurred to him that this could happen. For about two seconds, it’s very satisfying -- and then Dad’s face goes dark, dangerous -- Joker’s seen this expression a few times, never aimed at him. 

This is the look on Dad’s face before he goes nuclear. The look he wore when he punched Ma’s brother at his cousin’s christening. The look he wore when they got cut off in line at the post office and he’d punched a stranger in the neck so hard the man hadn’t been able to breathe.

A punch to the gut always hurts worse than just about anything short of a kick to the nuts, in Joker’s opinion. Long term, the times Dad’s driven his knuckles into Joker’s kidneys were probably worse -- gut punches never made him piss blood -- but for immediate, stop-everything-just-to-breathe pain? 

Gut punch, every time.

As he’s doubled over, Dad’s fingers get hold of the back of his head, slipping over the shorter cut but stable enough to hold him still and drive his knee up into Joker’s face. Blood bursts from Joker’s nose, but -- he thinks -- the bone didn’t break this time. Distantly, he hears his mother making some distressed noise, the closest he thinks she’s ever come to speaking up on his behalf. 

Dad snarls at her to shut her face, and she shuts right up. When Dad drags him upright, hauling him right in close, Joker thinks he really can’t blame her. She’d never be able to do anything but get hurt, trying to come between him and this monster.

“Think you’re a big man now, huh,” his father growls, clutching the collar of his shirt so hard he can barely breathe. “Not so big I can’t sit you on your faggot ass.”

Joker claws at his father's hand, his wrist, desperate; he flails a hand at the man's face, feels his nails bite into the bastard's cheek. That's what makes him let go, but then Joker tries to stumble away, Dad shoves him, hard against one shoulder. It disorients him, turns him around so he's barely able to keep his feet as he trips his way forward. Upstairs, he thinks. He just needs to get upstairs.

Dad gets hold of the back of his shirt and there's no fighting it as he's dragged to the door. His head's spinning, and the air is cold -- freezing -- when Dad yanks the door open and hauls him outside, onto the front step. The neighbours will talk, but they won't interfere and they won't call the cops. They're not exactly the only family on Nail House Row to put on this little public drama.

He can feel the shoulder seam of his shirt pop when he hits the ground, Dad throwing him from the steps. He hits hard, unable to break his fall and landing badly on his side, skin scraping from his forearm against the pavement. 

Rolling onto his back makes his head spin. The cement of the front walk is cold and wet, the most recent snow largely melted away. His skin is wet; his jacket is in the house. That's all he can think, suddenly, his jacket is in the house, on the table by the door. Thank god, his keys are in the front pocket of his jeans.

Standing on the top step, his father looks taller. He hasn't seemed tall to Joker in a long time, but like this, Joker feels all of five years old again, helpless before the wrath of his father's storm. 

"Don't you fucking  _ dare _ come back here until you've got your head out of your ass," Dad shouts, finger stabbing the air toward Joker's car. "Get your shitbox off my lawn. Next time I see you, you better have my rent and a brand new fuckin' attitude."

The door slams between them before he can even think of a response, much less get to his feet. He doesn't linger there long, though, cold already sinking hooks into him. As soon as his head is clear enough to trust himself to move without hurting himself worse, he's on his feet. By that point, the weight -- the reality -- of what just happened is starting to crash down around him. 

Crossing the yard toward Fester, he's vaguely aware of the blood streaming down his face from his nose. None of it really hurts yet; he thinks maybe he's in something like shock. He wouldn't know; he's never been in shock before.

The thought makes him laugh, and he hates the way it sounds -- jagged and painful, a caw of something clawed out of a dying man. 

Folding himself behind the wheel makes his gut ache, and when the vents start blowing cold air at him, he becomes intensely aware of how much filth and mud is on him. It's soaked into his work uniform, and there's blood streaking the mud on the arm that had taken the most of his weight when he'd hit the ground. 

By the time he hits the first stoplight, bitter, angry tears are rolling in fat tracks down his face. He's slept in Fester a couple times, but that had been by choice -- that had been him *leaving*, taking himself out of his father's reach to keep himself safe. And never in winter before. His clothes are *wet*, he can't afford the gas it would take to keep Fester running long enough to nap even, much less sleep. 

He can't afford a blanket, or a room at even the shadiest flop in Gotham. 

Driving in the dark, it feels much later than it actually is. The clock on the dash says it's a quarter to eight, but it looks like midnight. If not for the traffic, he might believe the clock had gone funny now too. He feels more alone that he thinks he ever has -- even his first night in juvie hadn't felt so achingly lonesome.

Seemingly aimless, caring only about putting distance between himself and the house he’d been thrown out of, he doesn’t realize where he’s steered himself until he’s cruising past the front of Arthur’s building. He thinks about parking, about trying to go up to Arthur’s door, and then catches his own eye in the rearview mirror and grimaces. 

There’s mud in his hair, blood smeared from his mouth and over his lips, and bruises darkening up from ugly red welts. Anyone he passed in the halls would be liable to call the cops, even in a poor neighbourhood like this -- sneaking in with bad intent and a baseball bat was one thing, but walking in with a limp and a busted face, they’d jump to assuming he was there looking for trouble. 

He cruises on, swallowing against that yawning loneliness, and pulls into the gas station a few blocks up. He’s got no money for gas, but the restroom is free and he’s got enough change littering the cup holders and the front seat floor to scrape together enough for a cup of shitty coffee. He’ll probably regret it later, when a buck-fifty might mean the difference between gas to get to work or running on empty, but for now he’s shaking, his head is ringing, and he needs something warm and better tasting than his own blood.

The lighting in the restroom is grimy and flickers ominously, but Joker knows by know that, especially with bruises darkening his face, he looks rough enough most people aren’t ready to fuck with him. He doesn’t look like a target; he looks like one of the wolves. Something to snarl at, maybe, but no one wants to waste the energy taking down what they can’t eat.

He scrubs up as quick as he can, not focused on making himself really clean, just on getting the worst of it off his face. It’s too goddamn cold to sleep outside, and he’s not got any real options. He hates the thought of bringing himself like this to Arthur, but if he can get the worst of it washes off, tame the mess his short-cropped hair’s gotten to, tug the sleeve of his shirt as low as possible so when Arthur sees him at the door he can hide how bad it’s gotten for at least a little while…

The clerk at the counter is pleasantly indifferent to his appearance, handing him change with barely a glance at his face. If she lives around here, she probably sees worse regularly. 

Some kind of steadiness is filtering back into him, his shaken core finally settling, until a shoulder collides with his as he’s heading for the door, deliberately sloshing burning coffee onto his hand and the floor. He’s knows it’s deliberate because someone laughs, even as he’s getting his fingers in the front of the assholes shirt and crowding him up hard against the nearest set of shelves. 

It takes a second to remember the little puke’s name. Sean. One of the fuckers who chased Arthur around, roughed him up, stole his notebooks and trashed them. Christ knew what else he got up to, or why he was so focused on fucking with Arthur, but it hardly mattered. Bullies like him were dime a dozen, and usually knew better than to get in Joker’s direct line of sight.

“They got a ‘no fags allowed’ policy around here, Lynch,” Sean says, voice delightfully thin even as he tries to play bold. “Better run back to that hole in the Narrows if you know what’s good for you.”

It feels good, hitting the little shit. Joker’s fought the impulse too many times, knowing better than to beat on an underclassman no matter how justified it would be. Sean’s buddy on the sidelines shuffles back uncomfortably when the air rushes out of Sean, Joker’s fist in his gut. Nothing short of a kick to the nuts hurts worse, that’s Joker’s experience.

When he takes his hands off Sean, he crumples, coughing, to the floor. Joker wonders idly if he’s ever had anyone really hit him before, wonders how fast he could break the shit of the habit of beating on others. 

“Funny,” he spits, “seems like they got a similar policy all over, ‘n yet here I am.”

Outside, leaning against Fester’s driver side door, he lights a cigarette and tries to find the usual calm in that hit of nicotine. Through the glass door he can see Sean’s lackey helping him off the ground, the venom in Sean’s eye when Joker tips him a little wave. 

There’s a part of him, something violent and seething, that likes the idea of waiting for them to come out here. Likes the idea of wailing on the asshole who’s made his friend so miserable, likes the idea of taking his pain and beating it into someone else. It’d be easy, he thinks, even if Sean’s buddy tried to step in; he could put them both in their place.

He clenches his burnt hand and climbs into the car, stubbing his cigarette out on Fester’s rusting exterior and putting the rest back in the pack to finish later. He’s got nowhere to go, and spending the night on Arthur’s couch is better than getting picked up for kicking the shit out of some big-mouthed kid.


End file.
